CRANE
by Enygmass
Summary: A cold case, a box of videotapes, and a missing girl from nearly 22 years ago. Barbara Gordon is determined to figure out what exactly happened on March 23rd, 1996. Unfortunately, to get those answers, she first has to figure out how this all ties in with one rogue that no one likes to speak with - The Scarecrow.
1. Chapter 1

**CRANE is an origin story that I designed a year ago now that's really gone from there. It follows Jonathan Crane throughout the first four years of his undergrad, ending off with him entering his Master's. It serves as an exploration on how the Scarecrow moniker developed and how Jonathan came up with the idea of 'Fear Toxin'. Essentially, we see Jonathan slipping into a downward spiral that takes him from a normal teenager with shit luck to a man that would go to great lengths to ensure his personal success. The only reason any of this is revealed is because the GCPD have elected to open a cold case of a missing woman that attended GCU the same time Jonathan did. The question is raised about what Jonathan has to do with this, leading to an entire vault of filthy secrets being blown open. The first chapter sets the introduction to Jonathan and how he gets to GCU; the next looks more at the modern-time version, including the opening of the GCPD investigation. Thank you for your time, and enjoy! **

_May 7__th__, 1982. _

It began with a spider, as all good stories do. A large, awkward thing with too many legs and too many eyes to coordinate itself properly as it tried to creep its way along the floor. Jonathan didn't move to assist it or squish it – he played the neutral party. He merely sat there and watched. Part of him wondered what it would be like to capture the arachnid and pry one leg off before releasing it. He would let it flee for a bit, then he would capture it and pry off another. Then another. And another. He would repeat the process until the spider was left with one leg to drag itself to salvation, like the men and women he had watched on the television earlier. He wasn't supposed to see those images, but his father was too busy being locked away in the basement to monitor what Jonathan did in his free time, so often he saw many things he wasn't supposed to. Seven-year old's were curious things and telling them no was essentially telling them to try harder.

His mother was not much help at monitoring what Jonathan got up to in his free time either. She often spent her days drifting from room to room, a comb in her hand or piles of laundry in her arms. Jonathan would dog along behind her, picking up the stray items that fell to the ground, which his mother remained oblivious of. Sometimes he would try to get her attention by pulling at her shirt or grasping at her arm – there was no seven-year-old boy in the world who didn't want even a fraction of his mother's attention at least once. But all his efforts were to no avail; his mother remained in a world that was not their own, her eyes holding a thousand-yard stare and her smile constantly devoid of any real emotion.

Jonathan only heard her speak when she and his father were fighting, a habit that was becoming more constant as the days wore on. The fights were often small and hardly noticeable to him. They were quite bickering's in the kitchen after he had gone to bed, in which harsh tones were the only thing to indicate a fight was even occurring. Recently, however, they had become more volatile, and as Jonathan sat there watching the spider scuttle about, he could hear the rumblings in the basement. The muffled voices carried no discernable words until they began to raise louder and louder, and Jonathan could hear snippets such as 'money' and 'trade' sprinkled in-between. He turned his head and looked towards the door with his own thousand-yard stare. His blue eyes were as vacant as his mothers. They had been since he was born.

Maybe it was a spur of bravery that provoked him to get up and approach the basement door, but more likely than not it was boredom. The spider had long scuttled away and, as we know, seven-year old's are curious things. His frail hand, with fingers than carried a bluish tint indicative of the malnourishment he endured, grasped the copper handle and twisted it open, allowing the gaping maw of the door to reveal the wooden stairs leading to its core. The voices were louder now, yelling back and forth from both parents. Jonathan moved to take a step on to the top stair, curious as to what he would be able to see, when another sound froze him in his spot.

It was a scream, but it wasn't a normal scream. Jonathan had heard animals being ripped apart by predators on the nature documentaries that aired sometimes and that was the only way he was able to describe what he heard come up from that basement. It was as though someone had taken a stray dog, tied it to a tree, and was proceeding to whip it with a cat-o-nine until its flesh was torn clean off its hide. He knew it was his mother; the feminine tone that carried with the harsh pitching was unmistakable. He knew it was his mother, but what he didn't know was what his father was doing to her down there, and the poignant smell of chemicals only increased his aversion to finding out. Almost as soon as he had opened the door, Jonathan had shut it again, tearing through the hall and up the steps to his bedroom, only stopping to catch his breath when he had slammed the door shut. His entire body shook, and he was numbly aware of something wet on his leg. He had pissed himself but that, and the punishment that was sure to follow suit, was the least of his worries. Something wasn't right – something wasn't _right _– but he was too scared to go look. All he could do was stand there and wait.

It was no surprise that a neighbour had heard the same sound and called the police. Within minutes, they were banging on the front door demanding to see the occupants. Jonathan only heard their muffled voices through the many walls he resided in, both figuratively and literally, and barely registered the sound of his front door being kicked open. There were footsteps all throughout the house followed by yelling, of both his father and the strangers, which provoked Jonathan to move from his stagnant position.

Opening the door was normally not an enormous feat, but for a seven-year-old who had just heard the equivalent of his mother being tortured, it was something to be proud of. No one took notice of his small frame until it was already too late. Police in blue uniforms were scattered across the main floor and grasped between two of them was his father. Or, who Jonathan _assumed _was his father. He was wearing what looked to be a modified gas mask; made of burlap with the inhaler sewn to the sides. Jonathan knew that his father worked with chemicals in the basement. Really, it was all the man seemed to talk about at family dinners, but he didn't understand why his father had to dress so _funny _while doing so. The police were muttering among themselves, and more than once was the term '_Scarecrow' _brought up, but Jonathan thought little of it. There wasn't much room to dwell when they brought his mothers body up.

The coroner hadn't covered it – or maybe he didn't need to. There wasn't much to cover, anyways. What had been his mothers face was now a grotesque mask of terror. Rather than the vacant smile and stare, her eyes were wide and glassy, yet still alight with emotion. Her mouth was open as wide as a human mouth could possibly go and the skin of her face had taken a greyish hue. There were gash marks along her cheeks and Jonathan suspected that the red that lined her face matched the red that covered her hands, which were curled protectively against her chest. He might have uttered a sound upon looking at her, or maybe the police all the sudden just became aware that he existed. Either way, as quickly as he saw her, Jonathan was pulled away and wrapped in a blanket. A female officer spoke to him as she pulled him back to his room and out of view from the disaster below. Even then, his mothers wide, baby blue eyes remained burning in the back of his mind.

_August 27__th__ \- September 3__rd__, 1992_

With a mother dead and a father incarcerated after a surprisingly fast trial, life became unsteady for Jonathan. He was exchanged from family member to family member, passing through their care like a rotten fish you can only hold on to for so long before the urge to puke causes you to toss it away. He had a brief stint with a Great-Aunt Bernadette in Denver, then was passed to an Uncle Harold in Chicago – his first taste of a city – although that didn't last long, then to a Great-Uncle Matthew who died within the year, until he finally landed in the care of Joseph and Margot Rance, family friends of his mothers. They lived on the outskirts of Gotham City in the more rural area. In fact, Joseph Rance owned a successful harvest business. Together they lived in a small quaint home, reminiscent of eras bygone, with a red pickup truck as their only transportation to the city. It was the idyllic life for a teenage boy.

Residing with these two were probably the only few happy years that Jonathan got to taste in his childhood. Between the ages of fourteen to seventeen he lived with the couple, spending most summers working and most winters studying. The seasons seemed to blend into a sedentary lifestyle. Between July and October, he attended markets and worked out in fields, then between October and June it was mostly perennials and schoolwork. He found himself adjusting to this lifestyle fast, and his previous home-life had become almost a blur, including that of his mother's face.

Of course, life isn't without its twists, and the death of Margot Rance was no exception. There was nothing more unpleasant than walking out into a field in the early dawn only to happen across the body of your guardian half crushed by a crop-cutter. Jonathan wasn't sure if he had screamed or not; either way, he had eventually found himself standing in the Rance's small kitchen, a cup of water in his hand and a GCPD officer to his right. Joseph's crying brought back vivid memories of his mothers, and Jonathan's hand had shaken as he held the glass. If the GCPD officer ever noticed, they had offered no comment.

It had taken perhaps two hours of questioning and some half-hearted investigating for them to conclude that it was an accident. The body was removed by the coroner, the scene semi-tidied, and then as soon as they arrived the GCPD had departed. Jonathan supposed that they had better things to dwell over than a farm accident – perhaps robberies, or _real _homicides. Either way, soon he and Joseph were alone again, the home suddenly eerily silent and devoid of, well, _something. _

To Jonathan, this was the beginning of a revelation of sorts. Nothing, and that meant absolutely _nothing, _good ever lasted when Jonathan Crane was involved. Great-Aunt Bernadette had given him up after complaining that he was far too 'complicated' to handle, due to 'unaddressed issues'. Jonathan hadn't understood half of what she had said, but still had felt offended overall. Uncle Harold's business had fallen to disrepair and he had to file for bankruptcy, deciding it was best to kick Jonathan out than deal with another mouth to feed. Then there was Great-Uncle Matthew, who had died mid-bath. His sallow face and blank stare remained compartmentalized in Jonathan's mind right next to that of his mother's. It seemed, to him at least, that there was a particularly nasty curse that followed him.

"Jonathan." It was no more than a week later that Joseph's voice had filled the kitchen again. His eyes were puffy and red from crying and his nose was running a bit. Overall, he hardly looked like the composed man that Jonathan was used to, but that wasn't surprising. A week after a death wasn't enough time for anyone to return to normalcy.

"I need you to grab your things."

They were words that he had grown used to hearing and had grown to loathe. Numerous emotions flitted through his mind at once – upset, anger, fear, sorrow – but one stood out above them all. Hatred. Absolute, and utter, hatred. Sure, he had just gone through yet another massive trauma and those sorts of situations can really fuck with someone's mental state, but this seemed to run deeper. Because despite all the goods that had come with this new life, a few bads had arrived as well.

School was one of them. Jonathan was academically gifted but socially inept and this was obvious from day one. He blamed it on his upbringing. An isolated child shuffled from home to home hardly had the opportunity to learn the social skills that many by grade nine had come to perfect, and this left him a bit behind. Unfortunately, his peers jumped on this, and sought out all they could to make his life miserable. He could take the typical jeers – freak, dork, and the few disgusting slurs that he felt no need to repeat – but it was when they began calling him _Scarecrow _that it really rubbed his skin. He had heard that word uttered when his father had been arrested. To be called the same thing sat unwell in Jonathan's mind.

Then there was Sherry. Sherry, with her warm brown eyes and red curls that fell down her back. Sherry, with her cherry red lips and smile that held a hint of mischief in its midst. Sherry, the only girl in the school Jonathan had bothered to pay more than a minute of his attention to. An isolated child shuffled from home to home hardly had the opportunity to learn another important skill as well – dating. He wasn't ever taught _what _to do with girls, and certainly wasn't taught to understand what he _felt _about them, so the entire situation was equivalent to a boat in an ocean at night with no guidance. It was a disaster. It didn't help that Sherry was involved with one of the boys that took great enjoyment in the torment of Crane. For all her perks, and there were many, Sherry had her faults as well. Perhaps this is where he grew to loathe her. Perhaps this is where his _list _began.

But it wasn't just Sherry. Jonathan loathed many people; Bo, Steve, his mother, his father, his aunts, his uncles, the janitor who was always so rude, the math teacher who had sneered at him in the hall, the teenager at the fresco who had bagged his groceries _wrong, _many people. And now Margot was one of them. Jonathan loathed her, because she had left him like all the others, and now she was forcing him to leave as well.

He swallowed. He looked to Joseph, and then to the world outside. Across the field, the sun was beginning to set, causing the barns shadows to loom towards the kitchen door. It was silent. It was cold. To Jonathan, it seemed like an omen.

"Alright."

_September 4th, 1992 – 4:47 pm. _

The acceptance letter to Gotham University had come that December, and Jonathan had accepted by January. That was why it was no surprise when, as soon as Joseph had loaded them both into the red pickup truck, they had begun to drive towards the city. Joseph wasn't giving Jonathan up – Joseph was merely moving him to a new spot until this situation with Margot was resolved. Her remains were still being scraped from the bottom of the crop-cutters wheel after all this time, so it was understandable why Joseph would want him to leave the home as soon as possible. It was out of genuine care. It was just upsetting that they had to part on these terms. Jonathan had hoped for something a bit more.

The ride was mainly silent, save for the crooning of Sturgill Simpson in the background, and Jonathan found the lack of conversation to be painfully oppressive. He alternated between looking out his window and looking out the front window, staring at the waves of corn that they passed by. He didn't look to Josephs direction. The snivelling he heard from time to time indicated to Jonathan exactly what state the other was in. It was only when they passed Broadbeach, still over two hours out from the city, that Jonathan moved to break the barrier.

"What will you do?" He asked, seeming to startle Joseph from his train of thought. The other man looked away from the road for a moment to study him.

"What do you mean?" His voice still waivered a bit but sounded sterner than before. He was almost back to Joseph. Almost.

"Now, I mean? Are you still going to stay on the farm?" Most people left places where they had lost loved ones. It was only a natural human reaction, after all, to move as far away from painful memories as possible. Joseph, however, simply shrugged in response.

"Probably not. That farm, you know, is the only place I really know. The only place we really knew. It would've broken her heart to hear that I up and sold it or somethin'." That was fair. On the flip side, some people stayed in places they had lost someone in order to _preserve _their memory. Joseph was always the opposite of the norm which explained why he fit this case. Jonathan nodded in what he hoped was an empathetic enough way and allowed the silence to settle again.

For ten minutes at least. Then he spoke once more.

"I'll miss her." The words left Jonathan's lips only because they seemed appropriate for the situation – not because he felt them. Joseph nodded as well, his own lip quivering with the hint that a fresh wave of tears was to come and offered no response. Jonathan felt, overall, that one was not needed. No further words were exchanged between them until the pickup truck pulled in front of an archaic building two hours later, now well outside of the fields Jonathan had become so familiar with.

On the outside of the building on a plaque in gold lettering read the words '_MARTHA HALL: A GCU COLLEGE."_ Red flowers entangled themselves up the sides of the plaque, creating an ornate design that added a bit of life to the otherwise drab stone hall. Jonathan's thoughts were once again interrupted by the sound of his suitcase hitting the sidewalk beside him. He looked over to see Joseph, tears now thoroughly wiped away, looking up at the hall.

"Well then." He offered.

"Well then." Jonathan echoed in return.

They were only standing there a moment before the doors flew open and a woman came bounding down the steps. She wore a yellow T-Shirt that had a black 'GCU' written across the front, and a smile that seemed to split from one side of her face to the other. Within mere seconds she stood in front of Jonathan and Joseph. Up close, she was underwhelming. Probably because she hardly reached Jonathan's chest standing up straight. Her hair, which looked to be styled in a bee-hive reminiscent of the fifties, made up for her lack of height though.

"Welcome," She announced, taking a moment to catch her breath as she rested her hands on her hips. Clearly running down the steps full speed was winding, and Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he waited for her to finish. Joseph just seemed bemused by it all.

"To Gotham University!"

_November 9__th__, 2018. _

In a dimly lit room, in a station nestled between a bank and a butcher shop, there sat a box. Written in black sharpie on this box, barely discernable against the worn cardboard, there were three words.

_CRANE – YEAR ONE. _

And somewhere from the doorframe, hidden out of view, someone turned on the light.


	2. Chapter 2

_November 10th, 2018 - Arkham Asylum. _

The halls felt sterile in the Asylum, more so than the precinct. Where the precinct was peppered with flyers of missing persons, persons of interests, and advertisements of events the GCPD may be hosting down the line, the halls of the Asylum were completely bare save for the few doors that lined their way down. Renee Montoya was not particularly fazed by this fact. She had been privy to the Asylum on more than one occasion, and even jokingly referred to it as her second place of employment. Harvey Bullock, on the other hand, was less inclined to make such jokes. To him, this place was no better than the garbage bins located behind the precinct. He'd rather be stuck on a 12-hour shift then spend more than 30 minutes here.

"We've moved him to a secondary holding room. There, you'll be able to speak with him without much interruption. Keep in mind that all conversations you hold with him will be monitored by both his current doctor and Dr. Arkham. This is to keep track of his treatment progress as well as indicate to the doctors what further treatment needs to be issued." The nurse they were walking with spoke the usual mandatory speech with a flat tone and a bored expression. Clearly she, like the two detectives she walked with now, had done this before. Renee did her best to nod along; Harvey didn't even spare the woman a look.

"How long are we able to have, again?" Renee knew that if they had moved the patient to the precinct, they would have been able to keep him in holding for as long as they needed. However, Class 1 intimates weren't allowed to be moved from the Asylum, which meant any interviews they were going to have had to take place here. It didn't help that the allocated time periods tended to change with each patient. Joker, for example, was only allowed in the room for 20 minutes max. The officers interrogating him usually didn't last that long, though.

But Crane? Crane was different.

Renee couldn't say that she had much interaction with the ex-doctor turned supervillain. She had dealt with Ivy, Harley, Selina, Freeze, and even the Riddler on more than one occasion, but never Crane. He always seemed to just pass from the Batman's grasp right into Arkham's welcoming arms, and never into the GCPD hands. Renee didn't mind that, of course. Crane not being in the precinct meant there was less risk of anyone being gassed with his infamous toxin. But the lack of experience left her worried about the upcoming interview. She felt a thought gnawing in her mind that perhaps she should have done more reading on him before coming - in fact, she felt almost _anxious _about this.

Harvey didn't look worried at all, naturally. The man's no-bullshit attitude and indifference to anything happening around him allowed him to keep a crippling bored stare on his face no matter what the experience. Renee recalled one time that Harvey dealt with Riddler, and how frustrated the Riddler had become at Harveys seemingly uncaringness towards the riddles and insults being thrown in his face. That incident had ended with Nygma howling in a holding cell and Harvey leaving the precinct for another Dunkin Donuts round. Having him accompany her was probably one of the better things that could happen.

"You'll have about two hours. At six, the inmates are taken for dinner, then to the showers, and then to their cells. Unfortunately we cannot allow Crane to miss meals for this questioning session. It's vital for us to keep the inmates on a strict schedule to maximize their health and wellness." Another scripted answer, minus the two hours portion. Renee fixed a smile on her face in response as she walked behind the nurse, allowing the conversation to lapse into silence until the nurse led them to a room located down an adjourning hall. Outside the room was a window, or what Renee assumed was one. More likely than not it was a two-way mirror where they could see Crane, but Crane could not see them.

Outside of the window stood two men, one of them a man Renee was quite familiar with, and the other less so. Jeremiah Arkham looked as exhausted as Renee last recalled; his mousy brown hair was streaked greyer than the last time they met, his glasses were crooked on his nose, and his mouth was set to a thin, straight line. He looked unimpressed. He looked resigned. The other man looked far less-so. His blonde hair was cut in a neat trim, his suit was impeccable, and the smile he gave Renee was broad enough to put the Joker to shame. This must be Dr. Boraska. He was Cranes newest doctor of a whole three days. The last doctor had been put on a long-term leave for 'unlisted' reasons.

"Dr. Arkham, Dr. Boraska." Renee nodded to both, her smile turning from the superficial one she wore to a more genuine look. She felt sympathy for Arkham - enough so that it affected her mood.

"We were told we have 2 hours?" Harvey's gruff voice was misplaced in the asylum's halls. It sounded like a voice you would hear in a bar, not a place where everyone else barely spoke above whispers. Jeremiah looked to him and nodded.

"Yes, that's what we, being Dr. Boraska and I, thought was best. If you need to speak to him further we can, of course, plan for other sessions that can be held for longer periods of time. But given the nature of your visit, which Crane has not been filled in about yet, starting small is a good call." Jeremiah did his best to minimize his hand movements as he spoke, but even then he still flitted about like a nervous bird. Harvey's eyes narrowed and he shoved his own hands into his pant pockets.

"You didn't tell him why we were visiting? Isn't that mandatory? He probably thinks we're fucking asking about his toxin, not a potential homicide." His one hand shot out of his pocket to gesture angrily towards the room where Crane sat. Renee gave him a sharp gesture with a clear message - _tone it down. _

"That's fine. It's probably best if I go in and explain it myself. Would it be alright for me to begin?" Now she looked to Dr. Boraska, who simply nodded. He seemed content enough to let Jeremiah deal with Harvey. With this confirmation in mind, Renee stepped around the two men and rested her hand on the door. To her knowledge, Harvey was going to stay back and watch through the window; they determined it was best to have one watch Crane from the outside and one deal with Crane on the inside. So, without further waiting, Renee pushed open the door and stepped in.

To describe Crane was not an easy feat. Describing him was akin to asking a blind man to describe a painting in a gallery; it just wasn't something that was possible. The man was a mixture of long limbs and angular features that made him look like a Picasso painting in every wrong way. A mess of dark, grimy hair sat on his head - Renee recalled showers came after dinner -, and his glasses were crooked on his face, but not in the charming way Jeremiah's had been. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him with his wrists embraced in chains and his shoulders were hunched, throwing his body over the table. But what alarmed Renee the most were those blue eyes, which fixated upon her as soon as she walked in with a stare that was both there and absent. It was a stare she had seen on images of abused children in her psychology textbooks. It was a stare that was not befitting for a 43-year-old man.

"Detective Montoya." His voice echoed throughout the chilly room with a sureness. It was higher than Renee had anticipated; most of the time when he was shown on the television, he was never speaking, and when he masqueraded as Scarecrow, it was common knowledge that he wore a voice modifier. For some reason, it was more disturbing for her to hear his actual voice than the Scarecrow one Gotham was so familiar with.

Renee allowed herself to get seated across from Crane before giving him the privilege of her attentions. Every single action she did, from the way she sat to the way she spoke, had to be kept in check around him. One wrong move could be lethal to a man with his knowledge and training.

"Doctor Crane." If he was going to use titles, then so was she. "How are you today?"

It felt off putting having a casual conversation in a room where one participant was in chains and the other in a suit, but then again, this was Gotham.

"Let me see. I woke up and was greeted with the usual manhandling. Following this, I was forced down a hall to eat a meal that I feel violates every food and safety act. I was looking forward to rec time, but lo behold, they took me to this room instead, where I get to sit tethered to a frigid table waiting for a waste of my time. So, overall, I have been better." He rapped his nails on the table and smiled at her. Renee decided that she didn't like his smile. "Yourself?"

"I'm well." Renee didn't feel compelled to tell him her entire day. "Were you informed why you're here?"

Crane shook his head slightly to confirm that, indeed, he was not told. It was surprising that he didn't say anything about that. For some reason, it seemed like he was the type.

In response, Renee rested her hands flat on the table and fixed him with a firm stare.

"We're re-opening the Hart case of '95. Because of this, we're re-interviewing individuals who were regarded as prime suspects. This also means that we'll need to take a buccal swab from you, with consent, of course." Renee rattled off what she needed to get out of the way before she got to the brunt of her appearance. It was just unfortunate that Crane was the type to interject whenever needed.

"Why is the case being reopened?" The sharpness in his voice snapped her attention back to him; attention that Renee hadn't even realized was drifting away. Crane was looking at her with an expression that could only be called _annoyed. _ "Last I recall, the police had ripped apart the entire campus _and _the student body on top of it all. Absolutely nothing turned up." He leaned forward further on the table, almost as if he meant to leap across it to her, and Renee felt herself leaned back in her seat a bit.

"New evidence has surfaced that's brought interest back to the case. It's been 23 years since the case was closed - so, naturally, when something comes up we tend to jump on it pretty quickly."

"What was it that turned up?" Crane leaned back now, returning to his usual uninterested demeanour. His foot began to tap on the ground, chains clanking, as though he were growing tired of their conversation already. Renee glanced over to the mirror that was situated on the wall beside them where she knew Harvey was watching alongside the doctors, and Crane followed her gaze.

"Ah, who else did you bring along with you, Detective? Was it the Bat?" He paused, seeming to think, and then shook his head. "No, the Bat wouldn't go to you for this sort of case. Is it Bullock?" When Renee didn't answer immediately, Crane gave her a wolfish grin. "Oh, do invite him in! It's been a while since _Harvey _and I sat down for a talk."

She was losing control of the questioning and she knew it. This was Crane's pattern of action; he liked to take the reigns of whatever interrogation he was in and lead it himself. It's what he did with his therapeutic sessions _constantly. _

"One of the suspects has passed away recently, and in his passing he left the GCPD a note. This lead to the recovery of a box of what we believe to be video tapes. We're going to start watching them soon, but the note-"

"Who was it?" Crane interrupted again. Renee's attention turned away from the mirror and back to where he sat. He had stopped tapping his foot, she noted, and his interest seemed to have returned.

"That's, not relevant to you, Doctor Crane. What matters is that the note the deceased left us contained enough information regarding Ms. Hart's disappearance that we, the GCPD, feel compelled enough to re-examine the case. Therefore, you and I are here. I'm interested in the nature of your relationship with Ms. Hart leading up to the day of her disappearance. Faculty and other peers had vouched that you two circled in the same crowd, and that she frequented your house during the second and third years of your undergrad." As she spoke, Renee pulled out a notebook and a pen from the bag she had carried in alongside her. "We also know that she visited your house the day of her disappearance. Would you mind answering a few of my questions?"

Crane, ultimately, didn't really have a say in the matter. Both he and Renee were aware of this as well, which was why when she posed the question it wasn't met with the same flurry of protests and demands for a lawyer that such comments usually were. Instead, Crane simply watched her with that thousand-yard stare of his. His foot had begun tapping the ground again.

"Tell me who the deceased is." He repeated his previous request, but now he spoke with a firmer, deeper tone. "Give me their name, and I'll give you your answers."

She probably should have noted the red flag showing itself here. Crane's intense interest in who the deceased suspect was wasn't a normal response for anyone about to enter an interrogation regarding a missing woman. Most people tried to save their own asses - no one hardly cared about who said what.

Still, she relented, only because she needed his answers before their two hours came to an end.

"Thomas Baird. He was a student at Gotham University as well during the disappearance. I believe you two were acquainted…?" The question seemed to draw out at the end, getting lost somewhere between her mouth and Crane's ears. The older man offered a shrug, his demeanour appearing unaffected by this newfound knowledge.

"Baird. Yes. He and I knew one another during our undergrad years. I remember the police holding him as a suspect for the investigation. It doesn't surprise me that he'd go out trying to get this case running again. He was adamant on clearing his name." Crane sighed at this, and finally slouched back into his chair. Or, at least as far back as the cuffs allowed him. "You're wasting your time with this. Everyone knows that Baird was responsible for whatever happened to Hart. But, I did say I'd give you your answers if you gave me mine, so. I suppose this is better than rec time."

With his consent now voiced, Renee nodded and clicked open her pen. Tapping it along the page, she looked between the words she had written and Crane. She felt almost _excited _at this opportunity, mainly because she had the upper hand on him. Renee already knew the correct answers to her questions - now it was just up to Crane to deliver them.

"Why don't you start off by telling me how you and Ms. Hart met?"

_November 10th, 2018 - GCPD Precinct_

The box sat on the table, untouched since it's retrieval, and Barbara decided that she hated it. Not only because it said Crane on the side, which was already an indicator that it was deserving of her hate, but because it just _was. _It was an ugly box made of cardboard and ripped at the edges. It smelled of mildew and that horrible attic smell that old houses carried, and the tapes that peeked up over the edge looked like blackened innards ready to spill out. It didn't help that the box had two siblings, seated on the table beside it, which also looked decayed and neglected.

They had retrieved the boxes from the house of Thomas Baird, an odd-job man who had worked mainly on the docks of Gotham's adjourning cities. Barbara had read that he had attended Gotham University, and upon completion of his undergrad degree had essentially fallen off the face of the earth. He had cut contact with his parents and three siblings, he had cancelled his bank accounts, he had sold his car and his phone, and he had left the city. The only reason the neighbouring counties police had known this was the corpse of Thomas Baird that they had been called to retrieve was because of the man's health card, which was found in his discarded shirt pocket, tucked neatly behind a packet of cigarettes.

Normally, if a suicide occurs in one counties area, they didn't bother to call other police forces in. Thomas Baird had cut his throat open in the bathtub. Blood had shot in arterial spurts along the wall and pooled itself down into the tub water, which ran as a murky pink rather than the stereotypical red one viewed on TV. The case was pretty much open and shut - he had been found with a knife in his hand and the note he had left on the counter essentially confirmed that this was self-inflicted. The only catch was the content of the note, which eventually led to Barbara, and a box, and an old VHS player.

The Meagan Hart disappearance was a case that Barbara could not remember herself even if she tried. At 27, Barbara was only three years old when the GCPD were ripping apart the entire GCU campus looking for the missing girl. Her father had spoken only sparsely about it since it was closed, using Meagan as a reference for why Barbara should be cautious around strangers. So, for the case to suddenly come back into light while Barbara was working for the GCPD was a fascinating twist of fate. It seemed, in a way, that Meagan Hart was going to be linked with the Gordon family until her case was solved. Or, so it seemed to Barbara.

Thomas Baird had cited that he had seen Meagan Hart last. He wrote, with shaking scrawl, that '...she had been there….' and then suddenly '...she was not.'. He did not write down any names of people who may have been responsible for her disappearance, which would have helped everyone immensely, but he had left specific instructions to go to the attic and find '...the boxes of tapes.'. Thomas had, once again, failed to elaborate on what was _on _the tapes, but the fact that he had gone the extra mile to underline that specific section several times was more than enough to get the police rolling. So, they had contacted the GCPD, and it had been Montoya and Bullock who got the tapes. Right now, they were at Arkham with Crane, to the best of Barbara's knowledge. They were re-interviewing all the old suspects who were still around in order to build a foundation for the case again.

Barbara, on the other hand, was given the better task. She got a break from dealing with rogues for once and instead was asked to comb through the video footage. Somewhere on one of the tapes was a clue to Meagan Hart, or so her father believed. Barbara wasn't going to protest. The case had been eating at the older Gordon ever since the file was shut and locked in a box to be forgotten. Bringing it back out seemed to have ignited a new form of passion in the man.

"Right then." Barbara mumbled to herself as she reached over the edge of the box and grabbed a tape, which sat on the very top as though it wished to be grabbed first. She turned it over in her hands and investigated it. The tape itself was a standard VHS, but on the side was a strip of white tape with the words 'September '92' written in shaky black sharpie. It was the same handwriting that had been in Thomas Bairds letter. Barbara smiled to herself a bit. Call it intuition, but she was pretty sure this would be right at the beginning of Baird's undergraduate years. He was a student from '92-'96, after all.

Setting the tape down on her lap, she wheeled herself over to the VHS player and popped it into the slot. A whirring sound rang out throughout the room and for a second Barbara was worried that she would need to hit rewind or something with the remote. Vivid memories of her childhood, when she used to spend hours rewinding old Disney films, flooded back to her with heavy nostalgia.

Then the screen went black. Wheeling back a bit, she stared at the screen which remained devoid of anything for a few moments. Just when she was about to reach for the remote and hit that accursed rewind button, static filled the screen, and a fuzzy image came into focus. It was of a boy who had to be no more than seventeen years old. He had brown hair that seemed disarrayed, as though he had just woken up, and dark brown eyes that took up a good majority of the screen.

"Oh, shit!" The boys voice crackled with the poor quality of the film as he yanked the camera back, turning it to face a mirror. Standing there, holding the camera with a triumphant grin, was the younger version of the recently deceased Thomas Baird. Barbara felt her smile grow as she grabbed for her own notebook. At the top, in her own loopy scrawl, she simply wrote:

_Tape 1: September of '92. _


End file.
